She looked surprisingly healthy, sitting at a table in back, a salad and glass of ice tea in front of her. He assumed it was tea. During one of their chats she had said that she drank her weight in bourbon each week; that once she had gone a whole month without bathing. She had said all kinds of things, wild things, and there was never any way of knowing what was true, or whether it was only true for that day, or that hour. The restaurant was one of those neighborhood Italian places, with a bar and booths up front and tables with brown chairs. All the tables had red and white checkered cloths and wine bottles with fake candles. A real candle could be inserted in top and lit but they still looked fake. Beside the regulars up front, she was the only one there.
She had put on a bulky green sweater and blue jeans. There was the pale skin, the high cheekbones, her famous dark hair pulled back in a bun. It was famous because she had said that it was. He wondered if she had washed it. She said she washed it every so often but rarely bothered to comb it out. He had never been able to get her to answer why. It was one of those secrets she guarded, some pivotal moment; she had also said she had three children and mothered none.
But she did look good. No doubt the sweater helped set off the deep green color in her eyes, or was that the mania, what schizophrenia did to people? _This is such a bad idea_, he thought, walking past the bar and through the arch behind the high backed booths. He got closer and noticed she’d started some makeup but then abandoned the idea. One eye was done complete with green shadow and liner; the other begun, the shadow there, but softer, almost hidden when she smiled. Her teeth looked much too white.
“Hi,” she said, not getting up but extending her hand. The grip was neutral, neither strong nor weak. God only knew what she meant by it. Nothing she did was random, though the motives might change depending on which of her personalities dominated. Each of her nails was painted a different bright color; red, yellow and purple, green and blue except one of them black, her left pinky. He looked for a pattern but saw none.
“Hi,” he said, “you look nice.”
They were picking up from being online the night before. Fourteen hours ago she’d been three thousand miles away. It had been one of their more bizarre conversations.
“Not as nice as I could. I wanted to look nice and then decided I shouldn’t, but now I can’t decide which is best.”
Trying to gauge her mood or second guess her words was useless. Being with her now for the first time was like walking down a trail in the jungle searching for trip wires, knowing you’d never see half of them. It was really a matter of luck.
“Remember, this isn’t a date,” he said.
“Yes it is.”
“Alright, it is a date.”
She had that tone in her voice, the one he knew never to argue with.
“Shall we shag now or shall we shag later,” she said, doing a credible imitation of Austin Powers, even getting the voice down right, which was creepy.
“I think we’d better start with coffee. I see you’re eating.”
“Been eating all week. I wanted to look healthy. Do I look healthy?”
“You look fine.”
“That won’t get you laid, bucko. You’ll need to compare me to a thousand stars, all shooting out toward infinity, each one the soul of every girl in every town in every city you’ve ever...” She stopped. “I suppose that’s the wrong direction.”
“Sex with you would be like hunting land mines with a pitchfork,” he said.
“Oh nice. You need a new hobby.”
It was one of their games - how long could they go without hurling an insult. He’d found that it actually helped her stay calm if he timed it well. There were patterns, schedules, as if down in the basement of her mind some little toy railroad world existed, complete with little mountains to climb, bridges to cross, towns with stores and blinking intersections, even an operating lumber mill with its very own smoke stack. He’d noticed patterns in their emails, and then later, the hours online and over the phone. Twenty minutes was some kind of record. If he sensed the mania coming he’d insult her. Then, like throwing a switch, the train she was on would head off down another track, one more wreck avoided. It was cute how she looked when trying to be on her best behavior. He hadn’t anticipated that.
“Don’t look at me that way,” she said.
“What way?”
“Like you care.”
Another land mine. One wrong answer and poof, he’d buy the farm.
“So,” he said, “Are you ready to keep your promise?”
She nodded, like a little girl at her first party, waiting to give out her present. She wiggled back and forth in the chair, arms pushed straight down into her lap. He watched her eyes, green like a cat, a cat with nine lives; only here the nine lives were all living at once: a brilliant, complicated life.
“Angie” she said, “I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s the oldest one. The one I remember.”
“Don’t they have records?”
“Of course they have records, but you never see them. By the time you’re eighteen you don’t care.”
“What does your license say?”
“I’m not allowed to drive. I told you that.”
“Angie,” he said, trying it on. Up ‘til that moment she’d been shedemon666.
You’re not saying that because you like the song?”
She stood up, suddenly furious. “I tell you the truth and you mock me.”
“No, I’m not mocking you. You know its okay to ask. Sit down.”
He was doing his best to stay calm, not fan the flames of her wonderful fire. There was no predicting her reactions, anything might set her off.
“It wasn’t okay,” she said, like a child hurt by a parent, stomping off toward the front of the restaurant.
“Angie”
“And stop looking at my ass.”
The last thing he wanted was a scene. Sitting up front at the bar were a few regulars, the afternoon game on loud and plenty of bar stool coaching in play. The one waitress, an older woman wearing big, thick soled shoes, stood in the open door, smoking. Only then did he think it strange the waitress hadn’t come over and asked if he wanted something.
“I wasn’t looking,” he called after.
She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, “You mean you weren’t,” she said, turning and coming back now, almost skipping down the aisle. “I have to go pee,” she said as she passed.
_Well, round one wasn’t all that bad_.
When he found that he had to come to New York for the zine he couldn’t resist. Of course, he could have done the entire deal over the phone. He told his wife he could kill two birds with one stone, cement the backing they need for their little poetry mag, and perhaps convince that crazy poet in Brooklyn to release some of her work. He wasn’t fooling anyone. It was always a matter of time, time before they met, and not about her poetry, and now the time had come. He wasn’t sure why, why now, and some of the things that came to mind he buried immediately, chalking it up to her influence. He assumed she’d say no or she’d never show up, or worst case, he’d show and she’d be drunk and the whole thing would get written off as an instant disaster, chapter closed. They’d been chatting for almost a year, mostly about poetry and literature, safe stuff after those initial conversations, the ones about how she made a living and her childhood out on the streets, her thoughts of suicide, how she was bi-polar and had her share of life in “the system”. This past year she’d been up more than down, partly because of him. He’d learned her personality shifts, when to press and when to back off. She valued their time online, a kind of anchor, and he could only imagine the nut jobs and perverts she met at work. He always checked his mail just before bed and there she’d be, two in the morning back east, her time, waiting more often than not just to say hello between sessions.
“You’re falling in love with me,” she’d written one night.
“With your poetry,” he’d answered.
Not what she wanted to hear.
“You’re just another fucked up vet who wants to kill again.”
A typical chat. He had to be careful what he admitted; she could turn any confession into a dagger and thrust it right through his heart. He’d been warned by friends how manipulative bi-polar subjects could be. Instinct told him never to show how she’d touched him, though sometimes he did have to laugh at how accurate she could be. Was that a side benefit of living with eight other people in your head? Did they all get together each morning and discuss him over coffee? Another one of their games, he and shedemon666 - the end game - that either one might disappear without a trace, just the memory of someone never really known. The Net was such a strange place to make friends.
So he sat there, trying to evaluate. Pretty much as advertised: early thirties, almost pretty, almost sane, a lot like any single woman in her thirties, except that her IQ was off the charts; except that her poetry was some of the best he’d ever read; that he wanted to rescue her. Of that he had to be careful. That she wouldn’t publish because she was convinced someone would steal her life or accuse her of plagiarism only heightened his wanting to help, to get her work read by others, get her out of the sex trade. That was a lie. She was fascinating and dangerous. No, that was also a lie.
“I’m enchanted,” he’d written one night.
“Then why don’t you ride out here and save me. Is your horse lame or something? Maybe you should just kill me and get it over with.”
The only time he scolded her. He was almost twice her age with a career and a family and didn’t need her shit. He wasn’t one of her clients and certainly not some guy she’d picked up at a bar just to fuck with. He was probably the only friend she had in the world right then and she’d better value it. She didn’t respond to his tirade; she simply signed off It was weeks before she wrote again. During that time his nightmares started coming more frequently. It was his wife (his third) who got up and came back with a cool wash cloth and soothing voice, but she didn’t understand – she couldn’t understand – but Angie did. Angie knew what it was to sleep with one eye open. Angie knew how to fight for her life.
“I’m only writing because I know you’re as fucked up as me. I’m sorry you had to kill all those people. You made me cry.”
That was the first time he called her on the phone.
“I’m back,” she said, plopping down onto the chair.
“Angie?”
“Yes, Angie. I’ll have you know I’ve been taking my meds every day since we talked. They seem to kill the personalities but not the moods. Does take the edge off my sessions, though, some of my clients noticed immediately.
“That’s not an excuse to stop.”
“It doesn’t help the tips. They like that element of danger, not knowing if I’m going to freak out and slit their throats ...”
He shook his head. He couldn’t imagine that tiny frame all pushed and pinched and gathered up in black leather, the whip and the chains. She’d mentioned one night when describing her job how she owned eleven wigs, from iridescent green to Morticia Addams black. He saw that her face was different; she’d finished the other eye. She looked at him now with just the hint of a smile.
“So?” she said.
“So?”
“It’s your turn.”
“How do you mean?”
“Is it really you?”
“Yes, it’s really me.”
“Come on,” she said, reaching out for his hand, “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Uptairs?”
“To my apartment.”
She had told him she was choosing a neutral place for their meeting, far from where she lived.
“This was far away?”
“Sometimes,” she said, the room getting darker.
You haven’t touched your salad.”
“That was just for show.”
As they walked past the stools with the men watching their game, the barman nodded.
“We okay?” he said.
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“Usual time?”
No, I’m not working tonight.”
“Really?”
“Can you wrap that for me?” she asked, looking back toward the table, then turning to push the door open, using her hips.
“I’ll put it with the others.”
“No, Dave, I mean it. Wrap it up like I’m coming back.”
“Okay, Bevy, just tell whoever’s on tonight that it’s in the cooler.”
“Thanks.”
They left the restaurant.
“Bevy? As in Beverly?” he said when they got outside.
No one else knows me as Angie.”
They walked along the front of the building, down to a stoop at the end. It was a decent enough neighborhood, much as he pictured, a mix of brown stones and little shops with a deli or bakery on every corner, not exactly dirty, but not exactly clean. They walked up two floors, the heavy old banister painted a thick glossy brown with green linoleum on the landings. The hallways were well kept, she had lied about that, and her door had only three locks, not seven. She started to say something but decided not to. When they stepped inside she immediately closed the heavy door behind, placing a black metal bar in a yoke bolted to the jamb, turning all three of the locks.
“I’m not a very good homemaker.”
She had described it once - the tiny kitchen, the living room with two windows facing the street, a bedroom on the right with a small mattress lying haphazard in a corner, a dresser in need of paint. There was no mirror. The living room had a metal desk pulled out near the center, her laptop on it, no printer, just an internet line running over the floor and out the window. An old brown sofa stood alone against the far wall, a squared off thing with chrome legs, like you’d find in a doctor’s office. Nothing else. No pictures, no posters, no lamps or plants, four white walls and the afternoon sun casting two long rectangles over a bare wooden floor. There weren’t any curtains or blinds.
“Remember, Angie, we said no sex.”
“I remember,” she said, sitting down on the sofa. “Could we just cuddle? Could I fall asleep in your arms?”
He remembered the line from one of her poems, an hour’s layover in Paris. She was always direct with him. Things most people would bury shot out of her like a cannon.
“Yes, we can cuddle,” he said, sitting down beside her.
She turned and curled against him, resting her cheek up close to his chest. He settled back and put an arm around her. Now he felt how frail she was, light as a feather beneath the wool, and it hit him - the green sweater, the faded blue jeans, dark hair pulled tight in a bun.
“You’re safe now, little one,” he quoted, a line from one of his own stories, the one about the girl in the green sweater and jeans who puts her hair in a bun to look older, only to be laughed at by all the other children at the party. One of his stories he’d sent her to read. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She snuggled in closer and fell asleep; it must have taken her all of five seconds. He listened to her breathing, touching her difficult hair. The light on the floor grew longer. She had cleaned. He could see a few telltale streaks on the windows. A brand new mop with a yellow handle leaned up beside the stove with the bar-code sticker still stuck. It felt good holding her. It felt like it did after digging a hole and crawling in for the night, earth all around and sandbags soft as pillows.
How strong she seemed, how wise, he might have gone on another twenty years before knowing, finally, there would be no rest. He’d built his demons, chosen them carefully. She had no choice. She’d wake up as someone else, or at least in a different mood and want to go drinking, something he dared not do.
It was almost time.
He knew it was all some fluke, a stupid idea but he was tired of faking good ones. For now she could sleep. _Let her dream_. He kissed her hair, letting his cheek rest beside her. He could smell the shampoo.
It was coming.
Shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw, he did his best to stifle the urge to cry out, taking her into his arms. She barely resisted. Instinct took over at first, but then surrender, the fear and wonder, even gratitude. After, he laid her down, folding her hands across the sweater.
“Safe now,” he said, knowing how hard it must have been, grateful for having her enter his life. The building was five stories tall. That would be enough.
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